


Loving Grace Hanson

by TheDevilWearsMiuMiu



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 04:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15162155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDevilWearsMiuMiu/pseuds/TheDevilWearsMiuMiu
Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Grace and Frankie fall in love and leave Robert and Sol for each other.





	1. Alcohol and I

### Alcohol and I

The one person who never could love Grace Hanson is me. Oh, I can put on a great show. I can laugh loudly (but not too loudly, for that would be unladylike), I can talk to everyone, look like a Hollywood actress on promotion tour and put on my face. An arrogant face, that says I’m better, and I only wish that I could truly believe that myself. But I have never loved myself and if you haven’t learnt how to love yourself as a child, it is difficult to ever do

Love is illusive or so they say. I truly believe that it is. It is difficult to fall in love with someone, to truly fall because the people that could evoke that feeling in you don’t crowd the parties of your life. There is not many people that you could fall for and perhaps there is only ever one per lifetime. Wouldn’t that be sad? Wouldn’t that be dreary? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it worked?

I have ever only ever fallen once and it came late in life. It is easy to fall in love because when I did finally fall, there was nothing else. There was no control, no little steps. When I knew that I had fallen in love, I knew that it was bigger than everything and something that I could never get rid of for life. A great love one would call that, perhaps, but I won’t because I haven’t had any small ones. This love was easy in the sense that there was no question about it in my mind, no fight. There is no repulsion for anything anymore and I say this as a person who has spent life feeling repulsed by so many things.

The love that has been and remains to a large extent illusive is love for myself. I just don’t know how to do it – love myself – I never have. I must have, when I was a little child, before I became aware and my parents destroyed all that must have been there.

Alcohol and I began early on in my life but no – I know what you’re thinking – not _that_ early. It started at the age of 21 when it was perfectly legal because that’s the kind of good girl I was. Like a love affair it began slowly. At the beginning, it was just a glass of wine when with company. Then it was one in the evenings when without. An Irish coffee for breakfast or baileys on a winter afternoon for dessert. Whiskey when things were really bad. Vodka? No, actually. That came much later and you know why. Little calories, doesn’t smell. Am I an alcoholic? Yes, but for someone like me there just wasn’t a line.

The line was crossed the first time I got really drunk in college. I hadn’t been one of those children who are eager to try alcohol, pouring over tiramisu, which has little alcohol content but is the only form through which they’ll be allowed. I wasn’t the 13-year-old-girl taking a sip from mommy’s champagne glass when she felt lenient at a party or the 15-year-old who gleefully took the half-filled glass of white she was finally allowed when it was daddy’s birthday and half of Southampton was at her house. Oh, I could have but I didn’t want to. I thought alcohol was disgusting and I didn’t yet see the confidence it gave you.

 _Will you take Robert Hanson to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish_ – I almost threw up at the sycophancy of the words – _till death do you part?_ It was 12pm, I was drunk on vodka martini and I said yes. I considered his face, saw the mouth that I might want to kiss despite not _dying_ to and I said yes. I thought I might as well – experience something, feel something, live something.

It’s not that I had never kissed him before but in that moment I couldn’t remember it. It seemed like a first kiss and if I said yes, I would get to try.

Let’s not speak of my wedding dress, Chanel and inspired by Jackie Kennedy’s. Let’s not speak of my perfect hair or my perfect cake or my perfectly tasteful table ornaments. Let’s not talk about my little curly-haired flower girls with cherry mouths who dreamed of being me one day. Me. A doll, a thing, a wife, a model.

But let’s go back from Southampton to Tulane. I was unmarried then but happy I was not. I rarely have been but that’s another story. I had always had this fear that if I got really drunk, I would end up in hospital almost dead. But when it happened and I didn’t, a border had been crossed and bottles of wine instead of glasses beckoned. Imagine that, I could drink a whole bottle and not die. I could drink a bottle, talk to everyone about everything, feel like the world was my catwalk and dance at the heart of the party.

Iced tea was exchanged for Long Island and that was that.


	2. Not a Republican

### Not a Republican

_Frankie and I began a year ago when I sought respite from my life at the beach house, only to find Frankie already there. I had often gone there for a break from my busy life of perfection – the business, the house, Robert and yes, when they were still young, the children too. It was a calm place and the beach was close. I could sit in the sand and listen to the waves crash. I could nap on the couch with a book without being seen as a person who naps and of course, Babe was there, too. My Babe to talk to and laugh with and share the Sencha tea she brought from India with instead of my usual wine. It was nice. And I had never been interrupted there before. I suppose nobody else ever went there during the week and they certainly didn’t know that I did._

 

But this time, Frankie is there, right in the middle of a vegetarian spread of hummus, eggplant rolls and baba ganoush. There is a huge donkey piñata hanging from the living room ceiling and I have to force myself not to think about all the damage that could possibly do – firstly to the ceiling because who knows how Frankie has fixated it there. She might have made a hole for all I know. And secondly because God knows what would happen once all her crazy hippie friends went at it, bound to destroy the donkey and all my little blue vases and model boats. For candy because candy and marijuana is what the great secret of life is all about for those people.

But no, that won’t do. Grace Hanson won’t think of all that, not during her relaxation time. Relaxation time that is cut short anyhow because Frankie comes back in from the patio and screams in my face. “Oh, it’s you,” she says then and sounds only mildly relieved. “How very astute of you. Last time I checked only the 4 of us had a key to this house, so assuming you know all about your husband’s whereabouts (which Frankie probably does because that’s the kind of couple they are), there was a 50 per cent chance that it would be me.” “99 once you saw me out of the corner of your eye cause my hair is much better than Robert’s.” That’s the 3 vodka martinis talking but this is Frankie, so who the hell cares?

“You were not supposed to be here, not supposed to be here, not supposed to be here,” Frankie shrieks with a strange sing-songy voice and I can feel another headache coming on. “Frankie,” I sigh. “We share this place, the 4 of us. So yes, I have every right to be here.” She softens. “I didn’t mean you don’t have a right, it’s just that you’re not going to like this one bit.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is it? Midsummer night party with flower crowns and dancing around strange, ornamented poles? Cause you might not know but Hanson _is_ a Swedish name.” She laughs at that. “You’re funny today, Grace. But you might not feel just as happy-go-lucky anymore once you find out what this is about…” She’s stalling and I raise one sculpted eyebrow at her. “Fine, fine. It’s a fundraising party.” “Raising funds for abducted koalas or crowdfunding for _Mon Petit Chouchou_ to take Starbucks out of business?” I ask and hope she knows that I’m not trying to be dismissive about those causes. Not really.

“It’safundraiserforHillary,” Frankie says because saying things she doesn’t truly want to say too fast for anyone to comprehend is one of those childish ways of hers.

“So?” I ask once more, really losing my patience now. I wonder whether Frankie is serving anything other than deathly sweetened piña coladas. “For Hillary,” she finally says and it’s in that normal Frankie-voice that people sometimes forget she is even capable of because she so rarely seems to wish to show the seriousness that she does possess.

_Hillary who? Oh… Oh…. Well, why didn’t you invite me?_

_What?_

_Why didn’t you invite me?_

_You’re a Republican._

_I’m a? Frankie, oh my God!_

_What? Sorry. I know you are and I’m sorry you are but so it is. Grace Hanson is a_

_Shut up!_

_…_

_Shut up right there! I’m not a Republican._

_You’re_

_Frankie, I’m not a fucking Republican! I don’t think anyone has ever insulted me quite so badly and I know this must be an insult for you, too!_

Frankie looks more surprised than dejected though and I wish I could just put my hands on her upper arms and shake her. What the fuck? “Are you really?” “Of course I am a Democrat.”

I take a couple of steps in her direction and lean across the kitchen counter towards Frankie’s side, eyes glinting dangerously. “Do you take me for a bigot, a racist? You think I, the female head of a Fortune company would vote _against_ women’s rights. A woman’s right to choose anything and everything? You think I’m a tax break-hogging war hawk? Leave the kids on the streets, let people die because they don’t have insurance or were driving while black? That’s who you think I am, Frankie? Well, I’m glad to know what you _really_ think.”

I turn to leave, this is all getting too much for me. I came to the beach house seeking solace and quiet time, not a vegan hippie who thinks all Democrats look like her. Does she realize she’s living in California?

But Frankie grabs my arm and drags me over to the couch and hands me a mojito (plus a plate of baba ganoush that I decline.) “Look, I’m really sorry, Grace. I didn’t know and I certainly didn’t know that being taken for a Republican would offend you.” She holds up a hand as I try to cut in “But now that I do know, I apologize and I promise it won’t happen again.”

_Alright._

_But… can I just ask you this one question?_

I roll my eyes. “There’s no stopping you anyhow.”

“Thanks. I am known to be incredibly persistent,” Frankie smiles. “Where have you been hiding all these opinions on civil rights and reproductive health all these years?”

I pat Frankie’s arm. “I’ve had them since I was a young girl and I didn’t hide them exactly. I mean I don’t recall every single thing I’ve ever said to you but I certainly haven’t ever said anything Republican… And when you were talking about the issues that you care about – and by that I mean political issues not your petition to get the concession stand on the pubic beach to sell vegan hot dogs with more calories than the ones they’re currently selling – I don’t think I’ve ever disagreed with you. And that’s because I don’t. I’m pro choice, pro immigration, pro environment – you name it.”

“Wow,” Frankie still gapes at me like she did when she found out there was going to be a feminist remake of _Charmed._

_Oh, come on Frankie. So maybe I’m the CEO of a big company and like pearls. That doesn’t make me Carly Fiorina._

Frankie laughs at that. “But you’re WASP!” Now she is just taunting me. “I’m not an insect,” I huff, taking another sip of my drink.

_You’re white!_

_Great eyesight, Frankie!_

_Anglo-Saxon._

_Mostly but so are you, Frankie!_

_If you looked up WASP in the dictionary there'd be a picture of your sweet face. You're affluent..._

_I do like my Chanel._

_Straight._

_I wouldn’t have taken you for someone that assigns labels._

_Oh, I wouldn’t, Grace Hanson, but you – who are you and what have you done to the woman that had my conservative radar pinging louder than my vegan one, which by the way is telling me, that you, Grace Hanson, had some poor little lamb for lunch._

_I saw you munching grilled cheese sandwiches with Brianna last Sunday, Madame I’m so vegan!_

_Protestant._

_The most religious thing about me is my name._

_Well, maybe but you’re part of that whole “I’m going to be seen going to church, so people will know I’m a good girl and own Chanel” clique._

_No I’m not. I haven’t been to church since I was 18 and my parents forced me._

_Haha! I saw you at_

_Unless it was for weddings or funerals, of course._ “Hence,” I point an exaggerated finger at myself. “Not a WASP!”

_So you’re a WAS._

_I’m not a WAS either but you can’t be trusted with the details. The bell is ringing! This must be your fundraiser friends. Don’t worry about me, I will fit in just fine with all these un-waspy fellow Democrats._


	3. I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It

### I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It

When all the people are gone, Frankie and are back on the couch with mojitos and baba ganoush. This time, I eat it, too. It can’t have too many calories after all. We share a bowl and Frankie laughs and laughs and laughs. I smile a little.

“You were amazing,” she says.

_Well._

_No, seriously, Grace. We got so much more money out of them because of you._

_I am a businesswoman._

_And a badass one at that!_

_Yes, definitely a badass one._

It is easy to smile and laugh along with Frankie, I don’t know why I have never noticed before. But of course I have, it’s just that I am usually preoccupied with projecting a certain image when we meet. The mother, the wife, the perfect girl that I have learnt to be from a young age. And Frankie is not a perfect girl; she is entirely and unapologetically herself. And all alone with her on this couch, she makes my palms sweat. When an honest, self-aware woman gets so close to someone who is an actress of her life, palms must sweat. I might be getting nervous. Frankie might always have made me a little nervous.

I smell nothing but the flowery scent of Frankie’s shampoo that, all of a sudden, smells better than the pristine ones at _Say Grace’s_ that have spent years perfecting. I take the bowl and mojito out of her hands and she doesn’t protest. She leans in and I kiss her because I am no longer Good Girl Grace. I am.

She tastes like all the kisses I never got to have, like the cocktail kisses that you should have as a young girl, like the California ocean that as an East Coast girl, I find richer, deeper and bluer than any other. Like the mousse au chocolat that I have denied myself on thousands of days.

I could sit here and kiss her forever, I realize. I hold her face, she holds my upper arms with more strength than I would have expected of her and I know that I relish it all. Her lips are lush and soft and I haven’t kissed anyone in so long that I had forgotten the thrill of it. I must have forgotten because there is no way that I could have lived without it, had I consciously known. Known what it means to kiss someone on the mouth instead of the cheek, as I do with Robert, and to _really_ kiss someone on the mouth – teeth and saliva and all – which we stopped doing long before we moved to the cheek.

I wish that I could stay right here. My tongue in Frankie’s mouth, my eyes closed to all the boring, awful world outside and my knees besides her hips, encircling her. Because that’s where I am by now. I’m practically sitting on her lap. I am sitting on her lap, my hair a mess and my vagina throbbing. Her hair is all over my face and somehow that feels like the very best thing. Well, second best thing after the feeling she’s creating in my lower stomach.

Frankie has always been this funny and yes, perhaps a bit ridiculous person but the way she moans when I pull her bottom lip between my teeth has nothing funny to it. The noises she makes are lower in pitch than you’d think and a whole lot more sensual too. I think of the summers I spent eating strawberries in the Hamptons and I almost cry. Kissing her is like biting into sweet berries that have been warmed by the sun. There’s red juice all over your chin and white summer dresses but you don’t care because the moment is perfection and the taste so sweet.

But suddenly she’s off me and standing beside the couch with her mouth wide open and her hair wild. She’s gaping like – and I’d rather not spend any time thinking about this – but she’s gaping like she can’t believe she just spent an hour kissing Grace Hanson. Kissing _me._ I can’t even bring myself to look shocked because while I should be surprised that fundraising for Hillary lead to making out with Frankie, I somehow am not.

I take her hand from my place on the couch and she lets me but then looks down to where her hand lies in mine as if the sight is completely foreign to her and perhaps also absurd. I am not a touchy person after all, though I would love to be. But she doesn’t know that and she apparently also doesn’t know how to _be_ with me because she has snatched her hand away and now she’s running. There’s a hollow thud when the front door falls shut behind her and that’s when it hits me. I have been left. I don’t know how you can feel so bereft of something that only yesterday, you had no idea you needed. How you can be married for 40 years and feel like you have just been left by somebody else?


	4. Sweet Girl of Mine

### Sweet Girl of Mine

There’s the rum from the mojitos, of course. Rum and some vodka from my secret beach house stash but strangely not too much of that. I’m drunk, of course, but I am not drinking myself into oblivion. I don’t even feel like it. I feel like a 17-year-old girl that has been French kissed for the first time and left by her prom date in quick succession. I take off my blazer – because Southern California is fucking hot – and drive myself to Brianna’s house.

Girl talk is what I need but Babe is in Marrakech and I don’t want to disturb Arlene this late. Forget about the others, forget about Frankie whom I just kissed and about Mallory who has two sleeping kids, a husband and my judgmental attitude. Brianna it is, therefore, and no, I don’t have any idea how I’m going to do this or what I want to say.

I fix my hair, wipe my mouth, put on a new layer of lipstick and more make-up to cover up my blushed, just-got-fucked cheeks. I can’t even believe that that’s what my cheeks look like after a make-out session but they do. I ring the bell and thank God, she lets me in, no questions asked. Yet. I can feel her eying me and even though I’ve covered up all the evidence – except for the blazer, which I left at the beach house – I can’t but feel self-conscious.

“So mom, why are you out in nothing but your camisole?” she asks before we’ve even set down in her living room and I want to groan. Of course she’d ask about the one imperfection I’ve let myself live with, the one thing I didn’t care enough to fix. Not when I’ve just kissed and lost Frankie and the summer is unusually hot even for San Diego.

“It’s not a camisole, it’s a top,” I reply automatically.

_Camisole._

_Top._

_I’m pretty sure that when I was 16 and wanted to go out in a ‘top’ very much like the one you’re wearing, you called it a camisole that, for a 16-year-old, wasn’t even appropriate to wear around the house._

“I’m not 16,” I shoot back, even though that’s exactly how I feel tonight. 16 and giddy, like I want to jump up and down with my heels off and cry over chocolate ice cream on the couch.

_But you’re also not at your house. You’re OUT like this._

_I’m at your house, not “out.”_

_Pretty sure you drove here…_

“My blazer’s in the car,” I lie. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s incredibly warm today.” I pretend to go through my purse so she doesn’t see me blushing.

“If you say so, Thelma. Can I get you a martini?” she asks, already halfway over to where the vodka is.

_No, thank you._

She turns around, clearly surprised. “Sorry?”

_No, thank you. I’ve already had a couple of drinks this evening. I still gotta drive._

Her eyes widen comically – a willful exaggeration on her part, I’m sure – but she doesn’t protest. Just leaves for the kitchen and returns with water for me and vodka for herself. I want to say something about why does she need vodka for a simple, casual conversation with her mother but who am I to talk?

As she sits down across from me, I realize that I have absolutely no idea what to say to her. I kissed Frankie Bergstein and am utterly devastated because she ran away from me afterwards because she clearly thinks this was all a big mistake? No, I can’t because this is my daughter to whom that kiss would mean that I cheated on her father. I crave girl talk but cannot really tell her anything because she would see me as the homewrecker of both the Hanson and the Bergstein home that clearly I am. And I don’t even feel guilty, I don’t feel contrite, I just feel alive and elated and sad.

I can’t tell her that Frankie’s mouth was the best thing to ever meet mine, that at age 70 I got the first kiss that was like the ones people always talk about – toe-curling and full of a passion that makes you want to eat the other person up and swallow them whole. Alright, that line of conversation wouldn’t be an appropriate one to have with one’s daughter anyhow. Even if I were, say, divorced and thus perfectly entitled to talk to my grown-up daughter about dating. But I’m not and Brianna is sitting here with her perfectly _married_ mother. Not with the woman who kissed a woman and wants to know if it is always so soft and magical and how the hell she can get Frankie Bergstein to be her girlfriend.

But deflection is in my blood and I decide to approach the topic from a different angle entirely. “Sweetheart,” I say. “I thought I’d check in on you for a bit.”

Brianna’s eyebrows rise towards the ceiling. The girl is acting as though I never take an interest in her life, which I do. I really, really do.

_Okay, who are you and what have you done to my mother?_

“I’m just showing interest in your life. I’m always interested.” That’s not a lie.

“Well,” Brianna finally reacts, sipping her vodka dramatically as if for strength. “Things are going fine at work. Other people are annoying – hate people! – but other than that, you know…”

_Hmm… how about your love life?_

_Ha!_

_Excuse me?_

_I knew it! Here’s your angle, your agenda._

_I don’t have any agenda._

_Mhm operation “Let’s find Brianna a husband and get her knocked up, so she’ll end up with cashmere sweaters full of spit just like her sister. So she won’t wind up a spinster cat lady but without the cats because she is unable to care for little creatures even if they’re non-human.”_

“Brianna…,” I’m at a loss for what to say. I’m hurt that this is who she thinks I am but mostly I can’t believe that I have apparently turned into my mother.

_Ha! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Now I need more vodka and more olives but really just more vodka!!_

I get up to sit next to her and when I take her hand in mine she doesn’t seem a whole lot happier than Frankie earlier. I don’t know how I became a person that people don’t want to touch or that can’t touch people herself or whatever it is that I have turned out to be.

_Brianna, that’s really not it. I just wanted to… make an effort, I suppose. To find out more about your life… have a little chat maybe._

Brianna is still eyeing me suspiciously.

“I promise it would be perfectly fine for you to be a spinster or a cat lady or whatever it is that you want to be.,” I smile. “Actually I’ve always wanted to have a cat, so if you ever were to need a cat sitter, I’d be happy to.”

Maybe it’s the cat part that convinces Brianna because she rolls her eyes and groans. “Dating sucks.”

_Don’t I know it._

Brianna looks skeptical. “You haven’t dated anyone in 40 years.”

_Well, yes, but before that it sucked._

_Touché. I can’t believe I’m telling you this but I’ve been using Tinder._

_Tinder? Is that…_

_Mom! I don’t even want to know where your mind just went! It's a dating app! You download it onto your phone, put some criteria like ‘woman looking for a man between 30 and 40’ and then it gives you suggestions with pictures and everything. If you like them, you swipe right and if they like you back, you can chat with them. If you don’t like them, you just swipe left and hopefully never see them again._

_Actually, that sounds easier. Back in my day, you had to go to mixed socials that your sorority organized together with fraternities. In college that’s what it was like anyhow, or maybe you met someone in class, though that was a nuisance also because some of us were actually there to study. It got even harder after that, you had to go to the country club._

_You love the club._

_Yeah but not the golf course, which was where you had to go. Then you had to have a young man that caught your interest show you his insipid golf moves, so he could stand behind you, get close and all that jazz. Honestly, I don’t even know how I survived. But I did and then if he liked you well enough, the man would invite you for a drink at the club. Of course he would order something for you. Something flowery like mimosas or… whatever was that pink drink called? The one that tasted like it had been made by Barbie or Bree van de Kamp? Anyhow, Twinder seems preferable to all of that._

_Tinder._

_So have you met anyone interesting on Tinde_ r?

_I don’t know yet, I’m going out with a Tinder guy this Friday but really, so far it hasn’t been any good. I don’t know. So many of my friends swear by Tinder but the guys I’ve chatted with haven’t seemed all that interesting, you know?_

I do know but wisely keep quiet and ask something else instead. “You know, my friend Arlene has been trying to meet an eligible bachelor also. Do you think I could suggest this dating app to her or is it only for younger people?”

_Moom, you trying to play matchmaker again? But yeah, it’s for people of all ages. Though Arlene should be careful cause there’s also many people who’re just on Tinder to get laid. But not exclusively. My friend Kelly actually met her fiancé on there!_

_Alright, I’ll keep that in mind when talking to Arlene. But dating isn’t exactly easier at our age either, so this might be a fun thing for her. I do think she’s been a little lonely ever since her husband passed away…_

_Mmmhh, Mom. So how are things with you?_

_Oh, things at_ Say Grace _are going fantastic. We’ll actually come out with a new product line very soon._

_And you, how have you been?_

_Well, I went to the beach house this evening before coming here, to relax a little after putting in so many hours at the company, to swim a little really…_

_Swim? In the actual sea?_

_There’s a pool at the beach house, as you well know but yes, I had meant to swim in the actual sea._

_Oh, with Babe?_

_No, Babe’s in Marrakech this week. I can be adventurous by myself._

_The sea? The dirty, fishy seaaaa?_

_It’s not dirty in La Jolla and I don’t mind the fish that much._

“But you said you had meant to swim in the sea, which means that you didn’t actually do it!” Brianna is swinging her finger at me as though I’m Madison and she’s just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.

_No, I didn’t because Frankie was there, having a fundraising party for…_

_Let me guess: Save the Raccoons?_

_Good guess. No, Hillary Clinton in fact._

_Aww mom, you must have loved that!_

_Yes, except for the part where Frankie accused me of being a Republican._

_Oh oh._

_Brianna, please be honest with me._

_Always._ Why does she have to sound so sarcastic?

_Do I seem like a Republican?_

_Aww, mom. Not to me cause I know your bookshelf is full of Hillary Clinton biographies and Gloria Steinem…_

_But?_

_The Feminine Mystique, Toni Morrison, Beauvoir, Chimamanda Adichie, Carol…_

But? “ _The Vagina Monologues_ , for heaven’s sake! But… but Frankie hasn’t seen the bookshelf in your bedroom?” Brianna tries for a weak joke that for reasons unknown to her, makes my face flush.

_But seriously mom, you know you can seem kind of… conservative sometimes and I don’t think you’ve ever let Frankie get to know the real you._

She’s right of course and I tell her so, which quite visibly throws her. “You’re welcome, mommy,” she finally says and gives me a kiss on my actual cheek, not the air beside it when I leave. I can’t help but feel that today, I’ve earnt it.

_Have a good night, sweetheart, and good luck on your Tinder date!_

Brianna really is a nice girl and when I finally lay in bed and attempt to sleep that night, I try to think of my sweet girl and her gorgeous self-confidence as opposed to Frankie and the kiss that changed it all.


End file.
